


Disguises are always a self-portrait

by yellowteapots



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, POV John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:45:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowteapots/pseuds/yellowteapots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm rest irritably. "We might as well get our stories straight. Homosexuals, even alleged ones, tend to be more personal than heterosexual couples. " They were headed to a Pride Fest for a case-triple suicide/murder- which, of course mean they had to pretend to be couple. John had a suspicion Mycroft took a fairly sadistic glee in booking them a (single king-sized bed) room at the most romantic B&B in town."We met in a bookshop in London, Grenshaw books. I'm a teacher and you own the book store. Your name is James Grenshaw and I'm Arthur Doyle. We live in a flat above your bookstore. Our ages are the same as they really are, easier to remember. We lived together in sin 2 years and have just got married, waiting until it was legal." He glanced over at John "You thought it was more...romantic." he dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gold rings. "Pull over."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disguises are always a self-portrait

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the Sherlock Fandom and my lovely friend Leah (epicluna) was my beta :)  
> Hope the characters are believable and you enjoy this story! Based on a prompt by: Laurpalooza (found here http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9255069/1/Johnlock-Prompts)

Sherlock was bored in the worst way. In the sort of way that meant Mrs Hudson’s walls ‘got what was coming to them’ or some poor woman wanting help to find a family heirloom got her head bitten off because ‘it isn’t exciting enough, Mrs Wilkins, I need some adventure and this is just _dull_. John I told you not to let them into the flat unless it was at least a 6’.

He was bored because the normally proactive and well-oiled machinery that was the criminal underground of London, had seemingly stopped churning out more crimes that that of a small country and had apparently gone quiet. And if there was anything worse than a constant stream of crime in John’s mind, it was probably not crime at all because no time meant a bored detective. And a bored detective made John’s life a lot harder.

“Boring!” Sherlock proclaimed as he swept into the room, the silk of his best dressing grown billowing out behind him like some sort of cape, as he threw down a brown file next to John’s laptop, making the shorter man jump, and interrupted his disjointed typing. “Do they really think I have nothing better to do with this precious mind of mine,” he grasped his head and mimed shaking it back and forth, “than work out if their spouse has indeed been flaunting their apparent indiscressions in some of the most well renowned eateries in London?”

John muttered something which sounded a lot like “Do _you_ really think I have nothing better to do with my time than listen to you complaining about how _bored_ you are?”

If Sherlock heard, then he chose to ignore it, instead deciding to simultaneously carry on with his rant and clatter about in the freezer compartment of the fridge to check on his latest experiment. John sighed, knowing how exasperated Mrs Hudson would be if she knew about some of Sherlock’s more prolonged experiments – it was bad enough with the body parts he liked to keep in the microwave (“That was a legitimate piece of research, John! Please go and tell Mrs Hudson to kindly return the fingertips from whence they came at once.”)

Instead of interrupting Sherlock’s rhetoric and risking the backlash that would probably come his way, John continued to post his latest article for his blog and then began to click through his emails trying to find a case that Sherlock would deem worthy of his attention. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was _always_ such a pain to live with – and John had heard by good account that since making John’s acquaintance, Sherlock had calmed down a considerable amount – but it was times like this that really drove John up the wall as there was nothing he could do to appease his friend.

“John, did you pick up the milk or did you have another argument with the self-service machine?” Sherlock mused, sniffing a bottle of questionable milk before pulling a face and immediately dropping the offending bottle into the bin. “John! Are you listening to me?”

“Mmm? Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh, “Never mind, I’m sure Mrs Hudson has some.”

And with that he flounced out of their flat and all John could hear was the thud of his feet on the stairs and Mrs Hudson’s cry of “Sherlock, dear, I told you I’m _not_ your housekeeper. Can’t Dr Watson pop out and get you a pint?”

Knowing all too well that Sherlock wasn’t going to let this go – especially considering his current state of boredom - or even consider fetching the groceries for himself, John picked up his wallet and slung on his coat. Making his way down the stairs, John heard the car pulling up outside and, for a brief second, he found himself wishing that it would be the police with a few murders up their sleeves – just the sort which would peak Sherlock’s interest enough for him to leave the walls alone. But alas, John thought, he wasn’t that lucky.

“Just popping out to get you that milk.” He called into the kitchen, seeing his flatmate trying to convince Mrs Hudson to let him store something in her teapot. Whatever next?

He was about to open the door when he heard a familiar ring coming from the bell. More than one buzz, rapidly. So not a client.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, how nice to see you!” Sherlock waltzed past John, and thrust the door open, an uncharacteristically pleased smile teasing its way onto Sherlock’s lips. So even Sherlock could be polite when he wanted something, John seemed surprised.

Greg tilted an eyebrow but resisted from commenting, instead inviting himself in and propping himself up against the wall in the entry. “Sherlock, John. Morning Mrs Hudson.”

“Cup of tea, Detective Inspector?” she asked, smiling as she flicked on the kettle.

“Not for me thanks, urgent business you see.”

Losing the earlier façade of politeness, Sherlock ushered him up into their flat. “Spit it out, and it better not be dull!”

-

After Lestrade had explained the case, Sherlock decided it was best they went in undercover since John’s blog and Sherlock’s website (not really but John didn’t want to upset him) had caused their names to be rather well known even if people didn’t know that faces to which the names belonged. John hadn’t decided to let on yet that Mycroft had had his hand in this somewhere, or so the early morning phone call had led him to believe. Something about booking them a room or something and that he had his assistant text him the details later on that day once the booking had been confirmed.

John hadn’t been driving long when began to Sherlock drum his fingers on the arm rest irritably. Since making his acquaintance some year and a half earlier, John had learnt that however brilliant Sherlock was at deducing the facts and solving case after case, he was also one of the most impatient men John had even met.

They continued to drive for a little longer, John flicked on the radio for a while but Sherlock just turned it straight back off again and pulled up the collar of his coat. "Look John, seeing as we have quite a long journey ahead of us we might as well get our stories straight now, so we have more time to familiarise ourselves with our new aliases. Homosexuals, even alleged ones, tend to be more personal than heterosexual couples. As I’m sure you’re aware -"

“Not gay.” John muttered.

John often found himself defending his heterosexuality, but recently he wasn’t so sure if that was something he still had the right to defend. Living with the massive intellect and allegedly sociopathic Sherlock Holmes did, indeed, have its draw backs. Like getting an ASBO, having fake drug raids just because your flatmate’s withholding evidence, being kidnapped, not being able to maintain a healthy relationship and nearly getting killed on a daily basis to name just a few. But it had also opened his eyes to many new things (which is hard when you’ve travelled the world with the forces) and he had slowly began to find that all the things that first annoyed him about Sherlock were slowly becoming everything he was fond of.

So when Lestrade had turned up on their doorstep two days previously, John was surprised to find out where exactly it was that their latest case would be taking them, after all it was relatively normal compared to the Chinese smugglers and demonic hounds that they normally dealt with. It turned out that they were heading for Pride Festival, a relatively small parade and celebratory weekend being held in a small village near the outskirts of London. Apparently there had been a string of poisonings all under the same circumstances amongst three of the women attending the festival, only one of which had actually died, and Sherlock and John were needed to decipher the killers’ identity.

And, of course, John thought, the cherry on top of the already top heavy cake was the fact that, in order to blend in, they had to pretend to be a couple. But that shouldn’t be too hard considering everyone who met them assumed they were already together but the pretence this time was a little too close to home considering John’s feelings which had only recently come to light.  

"We met in a bookshop in London, Grenshaw books – a reasonably sized store if they ask. I'm a teacher at the local secondary school, chemistry being my subject of choice, and, you John, you own the shop in which we met. Your name is James Grenshaw and I'm Arthur Doyle. Our ages are the same as they really are, easier to remember that way. We live in the flat above your bookshop, we lived together in sin for two years and have just recently got married, waiting until it was legal before we tied the knot."

He glanced over at John who smiled in return, turning on the indicator before making a right turn. "You thought it was more,” he paused and by the looks of it he appeared to be searching for the right word, “...romantic."

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gold rings. "Pull over."

Doing as he was told, John indicated and pulled into a layby and held out his hand. Sherlock handed him the smaller of the two rings, and John slid it over the ring finger of his left hand.

“Somehow I always imagined my engagement would be a bit more romantic than a quickie in some layby off one of the busiest motorways in Britain, but there you go.”

Before setting off, he checked his phone and typed in the postcode which Mycroft had sent him as promised. He had to practically force their car down a several small dirt tracks before he found the main road leading through the village. They passed a number of B&B’s, quite small and quaint – the type you could imagine staying in with your family – but none of these were the ones which they had been booked into.

Finally the satnav beeped alerting them that they had reached their destination so John pulled into the car park, not really paying much attention to the aesthetics of the building. Adopting his persona, he hopped out of the driver’s door and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door for Sherlock who smiled lovingly and stepped out of the car, his hand resting delicately on John’s forearm. And if John thought he wanted more of this, then he kept it to himself as he pulled out their suitcases and walked with Sherlock, arms and hands brushing surreptitiously, all the way into the foyer. 

“We have a booking under the name of Grenshaw, James.” John smiled at the girl behind the desk.

Her lavender hair was tied up, a few strands hanging loose, and her coral lipstick was smudged in a way that was enough for Sherlock to work out that she had, all too recently, been canoodling with – was that musky smell a gentleman’s cologne? -  her boss, perhaps. Although from what John had told him about the establishment and from the picture of the owners on the wall, accompanied with their name tag, Sherlock had assumed that the men in question were together. (They were both within the same age bracket; he assumed late twenties or early thirties. Both were tall, muscular and brunette – although in different ways leading him to believe that they weren’t related in anyway. Same surname and close proximity, so they were married not just lovers. Interesting, Sherlock mused, wondering which of the two men were playing away with the girl on the front desk with the hair.)

“Ah, yes. Mr Grenshaw…that’ll be room 42, our master suite. Here’s your key and have a pleasant stay with us, your bill has already been paid and you’ve been upgraded so any extras you might want have already been paid for.” She winked as she passed John the key and pointed down the hall. Before leaving, Sherlock turned to look over the desk as the girl answered the phone on the second ring.

Two chairs, two computers, two sets of family photographs. Two of _everything_ behind the desk, except for the girls. The B &B wasn’t big enough to warrant two computers on the front desk if there was only one receptionist – no, if that had been the case, the second computer would have been in an office somewhere not out the front – so the natural assumption would be that there would, nay should, be two girls behind the desk.

They thanked her and made their way down the corridor, John taking both cases to maintain the pretence.

Upon opening the door, they were confronted with a queen-sized bed – the only bed in the room – which was sprinkled liberally with rose petals. The rest of the room had a distinctly _pink_ feel, slightly reminiscent of their first case together. Letting Sherlock take a seat in the raspberry chaise, John perched on the bed and had a look at the leaflet which was resting on the bedside table.

_The Sparrows Hollow – voted the town’s most romantic B &B five years running_

At this point, John had a sneaking suspicion Mycroft had taken fairly sadistic glee in booking them a (single queen-sized bed) room at the most romantic B&B in town. It was as if the entirety of their social circle had some sort of desire to force the two of them together.

“I think we need to start at this restaurant, where the poisonings happened.” Sherlock said, looking over at John. “Although by the looks of things, I’m already about…oh…eighty per cent sure I know what’s happened here. Better check just to make sure though just to tie up a few loose ends – you know how the incompetence that is the police force need their evidence.”

“You’re doing the face again, you know, the one I told you about before.” John sighed, putting the leaflet back, lifting his suitcase up onto the bed and pulling out his notebook. “The bloody ‘we both know what’s going on here’ face.”

Striding over to John’s side of the bed, Sherlock took John’s face in his hands. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you don’t know what’s going on?”

“Well, that’s because I don’t.”

“Just think will you. Weren’t you paying attention when we checked in? Everything you needed to know for this case is practically written all over the foyer. You must be blind not to have noticed John, but I have faith…just think a minute.” He urged, tapping John’s head.

John felt his heart start to beat a little bit faster with Sherlock so close, but he tried to use the extra adrenaline in order to envisage the front desk. He had never been entirely convinced about Sherlock’s mind palace technique but he tried to use it in order to map out the desk. “There were two set of everything and one girl.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“So why would _one_ girl need _two_ sets of everything?”

“Exactly.”

-

“So,” Sherlock let his eyes dart quickly around the girls blouse until his eyes fell upon the gold name tag just over her heart. “Emily, how come you’re working all alone today?”

“Oh, Suzette – the girl who normally works here with me – was one of the girls who got poisoned at Jaspers restaurant yesterday. The scandal of it all – three people getting food poisoning in one night! That’ll have the health inspectors round in a flash, the papers have been calling all day, you know, it’s been disastrous.”

“Jasper? The same Jasper Phillips who owns this place?” John asked, clocking the photo on the wall behind the desk.

Emily nodded. “Yeah, our boys are quite well known in this area. Quite the local celebrities, you know. Own a string of businesses between them, the power couple of the town. And so cute with it, just like the two of you. How long have you been married?”

“How did you know?” John queried, smiling as Sherlock’s hand enveloped his much smaller one and rubbed the golden band round his finger.

“The rings. Quite new as well by the looks of it.” She smiled. “And I assume you’re here for the festival?”

They both nodded, and her smiled broadened when they spoke simultaneously. “Yeah.”

She continued to make recommendations, and handed then various leaflets and contact sheets for local attractions until the intercom system went off and the two men could hear a man’s voice beckoning her into his office.

“Yes sir. I’ll be right with you. Anyway, I’ve got to um go check on the er orders so I’ll see you later.” She added scurrying off into the office marked ‘private’.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand and pulled him closer, “Wait for it, just listen.” He breathed, his breath lightly tickling John’s ear.

They stood in silence, just the sound of their quiet breathing as they waited for something – but John wasn’t sure what it was. John was just about to demand that they leave when they were confronted with loud and rather overt giggles coming from behind the door.

“Just as I suspected.” Sherlock beamed, and then he tugged securely on his flatmates hand. “Right then, John. Let’s go and this restaurant.”

-

“Still with the handholding then?” John asked as the pair strolled down the street, flags hanging from above and joining the buildings, their varying rainbow designs fluttering in the breeze.

“We’ve got to keep up the act. Wouldn’t want people getting suspicious.” Sherlock answered, letting out a bark of laughter and squeezing John’s hand as they walked past two women holding hands over a shared ice cream, who cooed back and John could have sworn he heard the taller of the two remark something like ‘Look at those cheekbones’ and the other reply with ‘They make such a cute couple, don’t you think?’.

The rest of the town appeared to be brimming with life, members of the LGBT community were milling about as music played from somewhere, presumably one of the speakers not entirely inconspicuous behind the shrubbery in the window boxes, and the smells of the different food stalls situated around the green wafted across the square.

“That must be it,” John smiled, gesticulating towards a cream building with the words _Phillips and Phillips_ written, or rather painted, in a rouge cursive font.

“Ah, I see your powers of deduction are rapidly catching up with mine, John.” Sherlock smirked.

John proceeded to roll his eyes and tug Sherlock through the open door. “I’ve told you in the past that funny doesn suit you.”

They walked in and were greeted with an overly smiley girl in her early twenties and, if Sherlock’s knowledge of plastic surgeries were anywhere near as good as he believed them to be, recently healing after a rather drastic enhancement of the chest. Andrea, as the aforementioned girl introduced herself, ushered them to a table for two then scurried off to find a candle because ‘it’ll make the whole atmosphere so more romantic, and it looks like the two of you deserve it’.

John smiled as she returned to their table and then struggled to light the candle with a box of, damp, matches.

“Here, let me do it.” Sherlock ordered, practically snatching the box from the girl. He managed to strike the match on his first attempt and then lighting the candle, he quirked an eyebrow. “It’s not that hard.”

“Sherl- I mean Arthur, don’t be so rude. Sorry about that,” John’s smile faltered as he scolded the detective. Then, after quickly flicking through the menu, John ordered for the both of them, “A Salmon Risotto for me and he’ll have the tortellini with the sage and ricotta, thanks.”

Andrea took the menus from the table, after scribbling their order down in a small pink notebook, and then waltzed off in the direction of the kitchen, shooting Sherlock a dirty look as she did so.

John knew better that to waste his breath by reprimanding Sherlock again for his lack of tact and instead decided to ask about how Sherlock intended to proceed with the case. “Now we’re here, how to you want to go about this?”

“I would suggest we start with the kitchens - I may have liberated some badges from the food hygiene standards agency – courtesy of Mycroft – we’re more than likely to find some substantial evidence there because I highly doubt that the killer has, in fact, thought this through properly or, god forbid, done this sort of thing before.”

Nodding, John asked. “Before or after we finish diner?”

“After.”

-

“Arthur Doyle and James Grenshaw, Food Standards Board,” Sherlock smiled easily, extending his hand for the man to shake. He flashed the badge quickly in a deliberate attempt to make it hard for the viewer to read the name printer onto the plastic.

“Jasper Phillips.” The tall man from the photograph at the Bed and Breakfast took Sherlock’s hand. “This is my restaurant, how can I help?”

“Well, we’re here to have a look about the recent bout of food poisoning in the area. Our sources have led us to believe that the ladies in question all ate her the night before they were, how shall I put it, taken ill.” Sherlock continued, whilst John began to poke about in the fridge.

Jasper smiled (was that a flicker of hesitation?) and made his excuses before dashing off towards the backroom and muttering something to one of the waiters.

The pair began to route around the kitchen, opening drawers, making a mess and getting under everyone’s feet as they did so. On several occasions Sherlock narrowly avoided getting scalded with boiling water or being beaten repeatedly around the head by the irritable pastry chef with the large wooden spoon. John practically had to run round after his fictitious husband in an attempt to keep him out of harm’s way – something John found himself doing more often than not.

Eventually John lost Sherlock in the crowd of chefs and various cooking utensils and by the time he found him again, Sherlock was routing through the refuse bins outside, his arm submerged in food waste. He was balancing precariously on top of a stack of crates and was almost half in the bin itself. Not the detectives most attractive position, but John did appreciate the way he was bent over the bin as he had a prime view of the other mans behind.

“John there’s something at the bottom. Some sort of capsule. But I can’t quite reach. Will you just hold onto my waist so I can get in a bit further?”

Doing as he was told, the doctor took a firm grip on Sherlock’s waist and held him as the brunette forage around a bit deeper in the rubbish.

“Ah ha!” he exclaimed, producing a small brown bottle – the type you get from prescriptions. “Laxatives!”

“Laxatives? Am I meant to understand why that’s so wonderful?”

“Aloe Vera, John.” Expecting to see John’s reaction as more of that of realisation, Sherlock drew a blank when John just continued to wear a puzzled expression. “An ingredient in these pills. Still nothing? Oh, really John, come on. Miss Farrington. Did you not look at the records Lestrade emailed you?”

“You ‘confiscated’ my laptop again.” The shorter of the two deadpanned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and mumbled something John couldn’t quite make out. “Allergy to Aloe Vera, severe. Which is found in…?”

“Those laxatives.”

-

Sherlock, who was looking as smug as ever, lead John out of the kitchen and back into the restaurant where they saw Jasper Phillips speaking, a little too loudly to be a conversation, to the man who was presumably his husband, Xander, if John’s memory of the Bed and Breakfast foyer was anything to go by.

“As I see it, Xander Phillips is – quite evidently - having an affair with the girl on the front desk. You know, the one with the,” Sherlock gestured vaguely to his own hair, “hair. So what’s to say that she’s the only one? Now, John, what do all of the victims of the poisonings have in common?”

“Female. Late twenties. Blonde. Petite. Our poisoner obviously has a type. They’d also just recently come to the area, in the past couple of days, the press and the police assumed for the festival but that can’t be the case because all the people I talked to mentioned seeing them with a man, tall and brunette.”

“So the press think it’s some sort of hate crime then? Against short blonde lesbians? Like you said, not the case at all. They also think that it was food poisoning. Also not the case.”

“No?”

“Of course not. It seems to me that, given the nature of this festival, love is going to be the motive behind whatever’s gone on here. And a serial adulterer.”

John gave him a puzzled expression as he began playing with the spoon in the tea in front of him. “How did you get that?”

He listened intently as Sherlock began to explain all the small details that he’d managed to notice so far, that John had missed – as per usual. Even the things that seemed so insignificant that they weren’t even worth noticing were somehow important, or so John learned. Sherlock had so far deduced that Jasper, the jealous party in the whole sorry affair, had been trying to make all the women he expected Xander had been cheating with ill so they’d leave his husband alone. In doing so he’d managed to accidentally kill Amelia Farrington and miss the main lover that his husband had been cheating with – Emily the receptionist. The only detail he was missing was how the laxatives, which by looking at the bottle were way past their expiration date and definitely ready to do more harm that a spell of diarrhoea, were administered.

“You see, watch him.” Sherlock instructed, pointing to Xander. John glanced over as he propped himself up against the bar next to his flatmate and ordered two Bourbons. 

And John watched as the taller of the brunette owners of the establishment lost interest in what his partner was saying and began to look over his shoulder. He followed his eye line and observed as the other man’s eyes trailed down the back of one of the waitresses before finally settling on her bottom.

“Now, if you avert your eyes from that ladies rear, you will see Jasper has stopped speaking and is now watching his husband eye up that waitress. You see the pale look and leaking eyes? He knows and he’s jealous.” Sherlock remarked, taking the last gulp of his drink before sweeping out of the restaurant. John hurried after him.

-

They were sitting in the drawing room reading the days papers. Each flicking through the black and white print after having a small argument over that nights sleeping arrangements - the two men eventually decided to just share the bed because they were ‘grown men for goodness sake, John’. John wasn’t entirely unhinged by this suggestion, but it wasn’t doing much for the nausea that already seemed to be building in his stomach.

He let out an involuntary groan and dropped his tea cup on the floor before reflexively gripping his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock queried, not even looking up from the broadsheet he seemed so engrossed in.

Another groan, “Do I _look_ okay to you?”

“No,” he replied, his stormy eyes peering over the top of the paper and looking on John. “Come along John, we better get you to bed.” Sherlock instructed as he rose from the seat. “You’re ill and, if I’m right, a bit brilliant because you, my dear Dr Watson, may well have just helped me solve this case.”

If John chose to not hear the second part of Sherlock’s utterance, then no one had to be any the wiser.

-

“You ate the salmon.” Was the first thing John heard upon waking up later that night. “I didn’t and that’s why you’re ill and I’m not.”

Yawning, John stretched out his arms, minding his bad shoulder. “Huh?”

“Salmon”

John rubbed his eyes and sat up so he was looking at Sherlock, who was lounging in one of the cerise armchairs next to the bed. “What time is it?”

“Three AM. Anyway, you ate the salmon, the girls ate the salmon, I didn’t eat the salmon and the salmon ate the laxatives. Well not really, but they got in there somewhere. And that’s why you’re ill.”

“Oh good. I see you’ve solved it then.”

“Well yes, I suppose I have. Whilst you were otherwise engaged –”

“Unconscious.”

“Same thing. Whilst you were otherwise engaged I broke in to the flat next door. Oh don’t look at me like that, John, I didn’t get caught. So, on my adventures I managed to discover that our hosts really aren’t very good at hiding their indiscretions. But before all that here,” he threw a packet of paracetamol at John who did his best to make a clean catch, despite still being somewhat sleep addled, “take a few of these.”

He did as he was told.

“Xander kept a box in his closet labelled ‘office stuff’. Needless to say – it wasn’t office stuff, but the gifts for and belongings of all his suitors. Even a pair of – decidedly not male – underwear, which hardly seemed worth the effort if I’m being honest. It’s also worth noting that it’s apparent that Jasper had no idea that his partner was bisexual.”

John was honestly trying to keep up with all the information the detective was spouting, but there was a specific detail from the night before that John just couldn’t seem to remember. “That’s all well and good Sherlock, but how did I get into my pyjamas?”

-

Apparently, Sherlock had already called to let Lestrade know what was going on (Greg had shown up whilst John was asleep and taken Jasper Phillips into custody, making a few – okay a lot of – flippant remarks about the two of them sharing a room and a bed, although as usual Sherlock just chose to ignore them and pretended not to hear Lestrade on the phone telling Donovan and Anderson about the whole affair.) but he’d managed to convince John to stay for the rest of the night – since it was already paid for – and had avoided further discussion of the pyjama incident.

They were both lying on top of the bed in their bedroom at the B&B contemplating the events of the day, the empty pizza box sat atop the chaise longue from when they’d ordered in that night – or was it morning?

“John, there’s still something that I don’t quite understand.”

John stifled a laugh, “The Great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand something? It’s not the solar system is it, because we’ve been over that before?”

“No. It’s the sentiment behind it. If he knew that his husband was being unfaithful, why did he still care enough to kill someone after that betrayal?” he shifts position so he’s looking at John.

John knows this about Sherlock, well, everyone knows that he doesn't understand sentiment or romance. Sometimes, if John looks hard enough, he can see Sherlock trying to understand, really trying to get a grasp of how someone feels. Oh he understands how it works, the chemistry of the thing, but not _how_ it works. Donovan, certainly, and Lestrade, perhaps less so, think him incapable of feelings but John reckons that Sherlock can feel but just chooses not to.

“Think about it, love is the most powerful motive for anything. It drives people to do stupid things, for the one they love or to hurt them. It’s not as simple as a cold blooded murder; it’s so much _more_ than that. It’s an impulse, it’s spontaneous, it’s not thinking straight and it’s pulling the trigger at the last second because you can’t bear the thought of the other person not being there anymore because of some stupid decision they’re making because it could be the end of their life. And the end of whatever you have.” John explained, letting his memories and actions flood into what he was saying.

He constantly remembered busting through the doors on that very first case scared to death at the thought of Sherlock taking that damned pill. It haunted him, it did, what if he’d been too late and that pill had taken all this away – all the cases since then and all the future cases they might do together in the future.

“Cup of tea, Sherlock?” John asked, sitting up all too suddenly and walking over to the kitchenette and turning on the kettle.

The taller man shook his head and sat up, shuffling over to the edge so that he was nearer to John. “What about jealousy? What’s that like? I mean besides Mycroft’s obvious envy over my superior intellect or Anderson’s resentment that I have more respect from the force than he does.”

“Come on. You must know what jealousy is? Enough of our cases are based on it.” John replied, pouring out the hot liquid into his cup.

“Okay, so is it when you feel this sort of hot anger in your stomach when you see someone with a person who isn’t you? When someone always goes out with other people and leaves you bored at home with just, for instance, a skull for company?”

John hummed as a reply, not fully listening to what his flatmate was saying.

-

They carried on talking long into the night, and it wasn’t until Sherlock stopped replying that John realised that he was asleep. He looked over and saw the rhythmic rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as his silky black hair flopped over his eyes.

He sighed as he let his eyes roam over the other man’s body, not having to worry about being caught in the act since his flatmate was unconscious. “You know, when you asked what jealousy was like? What you said, Sherlock, it’s sort of like that, yeah. Also like when your friend ignores you in favour of texts from mysterious women with inappropriate alerts or when they spend more time on their experiments than they do listening to you. Maybe even when your friend spends more time thinking up insults about Anderson than they do reading your blog, the blog that does nothing but praise them.”

“And expose my lack of primary school age knowledge.” Sherlock chuckled.

“I thought you were _asleep_.” John felt his cheeks heating up with embarrassment, the scarlet tinge dusting over his cheek books. “You weren’t meant to hear that.”

“But it was an experiment, John, an experiment in subtext and listening to you.”

Feeling rather mortified, John began to rack his brain searching for words – any words – which would make this situation better.

“Maybe tomorrow, if you’re feeling better we can go and have a look around the rest of this festival?” Sherlock asked, shifting slightly so he was closer to John.

“I er yeah, if that’s what you want.”

-

When Sherlock accuses John of not picking up on the small details on the case as they arrive back home at 221B, John didn’t realise that the other man didn’t necessarily mean details about the case – more of what happens between the pair of them whilst they are on a case. This one in particular, actually.

Sherlock also alleges, over their evening meal, that John can be ignorant at times and ‘not just because you can’t identify 243 different types of tobacco ash just by the smell’. He reproaches him for not observing and only seeing.

And when John asks what he meant, the next morning over breakfast, Sherlock merely sighs, strides across the room (in his favourite dressing gown) and grasps John’s face.

“John, you of all people should know that I _do_ understand sentiment and I have done for a long while now. I was trying to tell you the other night but I just couldn’t find the right words.”

If John’s first impulse upon hearing those words slip so effortlessly out of the detectives mouth hadn’t been to pull him in closer and join their lips, he would have tried to make a clever (‘Not clever, John, sarcasm isn’t clever.) comment about how remarkable it was to see Sherlock Holmes admitting to not being able to do something as simple as articulating his feelings. But then again, John knew Sherlock could be a little closed off where feelings were concerned, so it was a good job they were kissing really.

When it came down to it, they can probably both be forgiven for forgetting to remove the two gold bands which were still sitting just above the knuckle of the fourth finger of their left hand even though the case was over, their aliases forgotten and left behind. A Woman once said, after all, that the biggest problem with disguises was that they were _always_ a self-portrait. Especially when you aren’t even trying.


End file.
